In The Pines
by siobhane
Summary: Screwball-ish AU. Squall is working undercover as a reporter for Timber Maniacs, trying to outrun his past, and solve a decades-old family mystery. Rinoa is a waitress at a quirky local cafe and a senior member of the very resistance faction Squall suspects of terrorism.
1. Mystery Man

**ONE**

* * *

Squall Leonhart entered the Shortstack Cafe early on a Tuesday afternoon, as he'd done twice a week for the last month, hungry and bored to tears. He'd spent the last hour tuning out a lengthy argument between two of his new co-workers about ancient Centran monoliths and their purpose while he stared out the window beside his desk, wondering what the hell he was even doing here.

He'd made zero progress so far, and the locals weren't forthcoming with information for outsiders. That left him no other option than to mingle, whether he liked it or not, and the cafe was rumored to be a hub for insurgent activity.

Twice a week for a month, and he'd turned up nothing of significance.

Located in Timber's main square, and directly across the street from his office at Timber Maniacs, the cafe was convenient when hunger and constant idiotic debate got the best of him. It was a quaint, unassuming but popular hole-in-the wall with blue and white checkered tablecloths and framed photos of trees on the walls. The small bistro tables were topped with gil-store vases full of artificial wildflowers, and it smelled of fresh baked bread and fried onions.

There was nothing special about it, nothing out of the ordinary, as if the owner had designed it to be perfectly nondescript to the point of being generic. Squall was unsure if its blandness was intentional, meant to mask a more sinister business, or if it was nothing more than what it appeared to be.

Today, as always, the A-frame sign by the front door advertised the daily specials. Even after becoming somewhat familiar with the establishment's peculiar sandwich naming system, Squall was mystified by all but one of the selections on today's list.

**Staff Picks**

_Booyaka- 7.50_

_Balamb Garden – 4.75_

_Deling City Princess – 5.50_

_Mystery Man – 4.50_

_It's a Sandwich, Ya Know? - 8.75_

_Half-Price Dirty Spuds All Day!_

The bell over the door tinkled when Squall stepped inside. Everyone looked at him.

_Everyone _amounted to exactly four people. The two teenage girls at the table in the back, and the two employees behind the counter. Squall recognized both of them from previous visits, and from his daily surveillance from across the street. The blonde man at the grill always arrived first, presumably to open up shop. The pretty brunette usually arrived an hour or more later, always in a hurry, as if running late. Sometimes there was a third girl, a petite, bouncy thing, but she only worked a few days a week.

They always left together, about an hour after close. Squall had yet to learn any of their names.

"S'up?" the short blonde man greeted and waved a grease-covered spatula at the grill. "You want the usual?"

"Yeah," Squall said. "That's fine."

The _usual _was a basic grilled ham and cheese sandwich that was not on the menu.

The sandwiches on the menu were as exotically designed as their names, and Squall was a simple man with simple tastes. To him, a sandwich was two slices of bread, meat and cheese. Avocado, bean-sprouts, and sun-dried tomato had no place in that mix.

"You want a side salad or just the sandwich today?" the pretty brunette at the register asked.

"Balamb Garden," he said. "Dressing on the side. And coffee please."

"You usually get water."

"Today I want coffee," he said.

"And here I thought you were a creature of habit," she teased. "Kissed by Angels or Black as My Soul?"

It took Squall a second to understand what she was asking.

"Black, please."

"You have to order it the right way," she sing-songed and wagged her finger at him.

Why did they have to give everything a ridiculous name? Why not just call black coffee _black coffee_?

"C'mon."

"No coffee until you say it right, mister."

Squall sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Fine. Black as my soul."

She grinned hugely.

"Sure I can't interest you in the dirty spuds, since you're changing things up on me?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye. "They're half price all day."

"Maybe next time."

"You need me to put it on a ticket or are you good?" she asked the guy at the grill.

"Already on the grill, baby," he said.

She punched buttons on the old-timey cash register. It sounded like the typewriters the old guys at the office still used, either because they feared technology or they thought it made them seem intellectual.

Squall used a laptop, like everyone else who wasn't a pretentious, bitter moron that chain smoked and couldn't stop talking about the old days.

"That'll be eleven-seventy-five," she said.

Squall handed her a 20 gil bill.

"Keep the change."

"Thanks," she said sincerely. "Appreciate it. We'll have your order right out."

Squall nodded and chose his usual seat by the window. Less than a minute later, his food and coffee arrived. He noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing a name tag on a lanyard. On the lanyard was a black button with the face of an owl outlined in white.

That was interesting. Around Timber, the owl was synonymous with a prominent resistance group. One linked to recent acts of terrorism, according to the Galbadian government.

Maybe he wasn't as off base as he thought.

And her name was Rinoa. Why that was relevant, Squall didn't know, but he made a mental note of it. I could be important later. Especially if she was a member of the Owls and not just a supporter.

After all, everyone in Timber was rumored to be affiliated with one resistance group or another, and not without reason.

"Here you go," she said with a smile. "One _Mystery_ _Man_, one _Balamb Garden_, and one coffee, _Black As My Soul_."

Squall's brow furrowed.

"Mystery man?"

"We named your sandwich," she said proudly and pointed to the hand-written chalkboard menu above the counter. "See?"

There, below a meatball sub dubiously named _Your Mom Wears Combat Boots_, was Squall's simple, no-frills grilled ham and cheese sandwich.

"Not even a smile?" Rinoa asked. "We don't name a sandwich after every customer, you know. You should be honored."

He supposed in a boring town like Timber, it would be something of an honor to have the local eatery name something after a customer, but judging from the names of some of those sandwiches, he guessed it was more common here than she made it out to be.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome."

It bothered him. The name. It got under his skin and he didn't know why. Just like that pin on her lanyard bothered him.

"I'm just a journalist," he said before he could stop himself. "Not really anything mysterious about that."

He wasn't much of a journalist. He wasn't really much of a writer, either. Sure, he could string words together into coherent and factual sentences, but he was well aware that his skill-set was closer to technical manual than think-piece.

Rinoa slid into the chair opposite him and leaned forward, her chin resting on the heels of her hands like a smitten admirer. It was less flirty than it seemed.

She was one of those people who smiled with her eyes. He'd noticed how they crinkled and became squinty when she was being sincere. In spite of the girlish pose, her smile now seemed calculated, almost forced.

"No?" she asked.

"No."

"I don't believe you," she said. "I think there's a lot more to you than you let on. I think you have _secrets_."

He had secrets, alright, but those secrets were less related to what he was doing here than with trying to leave his past behind.

"Not really."

She tapped a finger against her chin and looked at him shrewdly.

"I'll tell you a secret if you tell me one of yours," she said.

Squall did what he always did when he didn't know what to do. He said nothing.

"Ready?" she asked and leaned further across the table. "But you have to promise not to tell anyone."

Squall waited.

"Come on. Promise."

"Fine. Promise."

"Okay. Here goes," she said and took a slow, deep breath as if what she was about to say was extremely difficult and important. "_The Galbadian Stallion_ and the _Deling City Princess_ are the exact same sandwich."

Squall didn't expect that. He didn't know what he expected but it wasn't that.

"Shocking, right?" she asked.

"...why?"

"Needless but effective gendered marketing," she said. "Turns out, men weren't ordering the _Princess_ because they found the name emasculating, so I thought maybe we'd do an experiment."

"Did it work?"

"It worked," she said with a pleased smile. "We sell twice as many as we used to, and I get to gloat every time a man orders a _Galbadian Stallion_."

It was actually pretty smart, all things considered.

"Why not name it something else altogether?"

"Oh, what's the fun in that?" she said. "Besides, the names are already established and changing it now would just confuse everybody."

"You don't feel like you're deceiving people?"

She gestured at the board.

"It's all right there, if they cared to read it for themselves."

"No one's figured it out?"

"Not a one."

Squall glanced at the board to confirm they were the same thing.

Both sandwiches contained sun-dried tomato, spinach, bean sprouts, egg whites, some kind of fancy white cheese with a name he couldn't pronounce, and avocado mayo on sunflower bread.

Way too many flavors all stacked together for Squall to contemplate.

"Okay, now you," she said. "Tell me a secret."

Squall wracked his brain to come up with something interesting but innocuous. Something that wouldn't give anything away. All his secrets were of the dark variety, things he could tell no one, lest anyone figure out who he was or why he was here.

He came up with nothing. There was literally nothing about himself that he could reveal that wouldn't tip her off to all those secrets he really was hiding.

"There must be something," she said. "Something you've never told anyone."

He was going to have to tell a lie to get her to back off. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm incapable of leaving the house without a belt on," he said.

"Really?"

Squall nodded.

"Well. That's interesting."

"Not really."

She drummed her fingers on the table. She was staring, sizing him up.

"So, what do you write about?" she asked.

"Have you ever actually read _Timber Maniacs_?"

"I have," she said. "And that's not an answer."

Squall sighed. She wasn't going to leave him alone until he gave her something. He couldn't exactly tell her he was casing her place of employment for signs of insurgent activity. She was forcing him to tell another lie when he preferred to avoid the subject completely.

"I write weapons reviews, mostly. For the _Battle Series_. Sometimes travel pieces, too."

"Hmm."

She looked skeptical. None of those things were lies, they just weren't the whole truth. He'd written exactly two weapons reviews for the magazine, and three travel stories back in Esthar. Neither topic had been what anyone would call inspired writing, and he would never win any awards, but he_ had_ been published.

"What?"

"Just wondering what a guy like you is doing working for the _Tim_. You don't exactly fit the mold."

Squall raised an eyebrow. Her mouth curved into a wry smile. A challenge in her eye.

"You don't know me well enough to say that."

"I know the guys that work there well enough," she said. "They're all conspiracy theorists and radicals and nut jobs. You strike me as too practical for all that."

She was right, but Squall would never admit it. Every last one of them was a certified wacko who spent more time arguing about whether or not Vinzer Deling belonged to an ancient order of devil worshipers than actually writing.

"Based on what?"

"I can tell a lot about a person based on the sandwich they order," she said.

"So you think I'm practical because I don't want bean sprouts and tofu hummus on my sandwich?"

"Yep," she said.

"Whatever," he said. "_Practical_ is a polite way of saying someone's _boring_."

That funny wry smile was back. Until now she'd seemed like a pretty but average small-town girl. There was something canny about her, like she could see beyond the veneer and that bothered him. She couldn't know about his past, or the real reason he was here. No one knew, not even his employer.

"I never said boring," she said. "I'd wager you're anything but. I bet there's a lot more to you than meets the eye."

Squall sighed. His sandwich was getting cold and his lunch break was almost over. And he still wasn't sure if she was flirting or giving him a hard time.

"Can I get this to go?" he asked. "I need to get back to the office."

"Sure," she said and stood up. "I'll get you a container."

He watched her go with a mixture of uncharacteristic curiosity and irritation. She smiled and laughed at something the guy at the grill said, carefree and lighthearted in a way Squall would never be.

Even so, he would bet a month's salary there was more to her than there seemed, too.

* * *

From the window of the cafe, Rinoa watched the Mystery Man cross the square back to the Timber Maniacs headquarters, where he returned after every visit without fail.

She didn't know what to make of him. There was something compelling about him. Sure, he was good looking and obviously in good shape, but he was mysterious no matter what he said. He had secrets. She was sure of it.

For one thing, he moved like a career soldier. She'd known many over the years, her own father included. They all had the same posture, the same purposeful walk, the same quiet air of authority.

For another, he was way too young and too normal-seeming to work for the _Tim_ . That wasn't to say the magazine was trash. Many of the writers supported Timber's ongoing battle with the capital's systematic destruction of the ancient forests surrounding the town. They wrote tons of angry op-ed pieces about the diabolical President Deling's latest environmental or social atrocity, and a good half of them belonged to at least one of the town's various resistance groups.

And that was great, but there were also the multitude of crackpot conspiracy theories about the planet being flat and mind-control drugs in the water and tales of top Galbadian military officials being aliens disguised as human.

The _Battle Series_ was slightly less wacky than the weekly publication, but it also contained its own brand of over the top conspiracies and tended to skew toward violence. It was all weapons and military history and surveillance technology and articles about how to kill people with your bare hands. Most of the guys she associated with loved it, but she personally found little interest in firearm specifications and tales of heroism on long ago battlefields or in learning eight different ways to commit arson and not get caught.

This guy didn't seem like he belonged working on either publication, former soldier or not.

"Stare any harder and your eyes are gonna fall outta your head and roll themselves across the street," Zell said.

Rinoa turned around to deny that she was staring, but caught Zell staring too.

"What's with you and these military types, anyway?" Zell asked as he watched the Mystery Man enter the _Tim_ building. "Didn't you learn your lesson with Seifer?"

"Seifer's not that bad," she said. "You just can't let him get under your skin or he'll never respect you."

"He doesn't get under my skin, he's just an idiot," Zell said. "And I could whoop his ass from here to the train station if I wanted to."

"You'd need a ladder," Rinoa teased.

"Hey!" he cried. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"I am," she said. "Anyway, enough about Seifer. Seifer is gone and he's not coming back, so there will be no ass whooping via ladder in the near future."

"You're tryin' to get me to change the subject because I busted you checking him out," Zell said. He pointed his spatula at her. "I'm on to you."

"I can look."

"Get his number yet?"

"Didn't ask."

"His name?"

"He's a journalist," Rinoa said.

"I figured," Zell said. "You know, on account of him returning to the _Tim_ every time he comes in."

"He could have been IT or something," Rinoa said. "Or a janitor."

Zell snorted.

"Yeah, they don't hire guys that look like that to be janitors unless it's like, for a sexy man calendar," Zell said. "And then it's like, a shirtless muscular dude holding a plunger. Sexily."

"Oh, so you think he's sexy," she teased.

"No," he said. "I'm just sayin', he's good looking and works out and probably makes girls swoon when he takes his shirt off."

"Ooh, tell me more about_ that_," Rinoa teased. "It's been ages since I last swooned."

"Shut up," Zell muttered. "You know what I mean."

Though she teased him, they were both curious about this Mystery Man. They both wanted to know more and it was sort of fun to come up with outlandish ideas about who he really was and why he was here.

"So he works out?" she pressed. "And you know this how?"

"I've seen him running in the mornings," Zell said. He scraped a layer of charred grease off the grill. "Most days for the last month"

"You have?" Rinoa asked. "I've never seen him."

"That's because you don't get out of bed until I call you and tell you you're late."

"That means he must live nearby."

"It's Timber. Everything's nearby."

"But people tend to go for a run in their own neighborhood, right?" she said.

"Yeah, I guess," Zell said. He looked at the clock and then gestured at the line. "We gotta start getting cleaned up. Meeting's in an hour."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Wait, where's Selphie? I haven't seen her since lunch. She was scheduled to close, right?"

Zell turned in a circle as if he, too, just realized Selphie had somehow dipped out of work without either of them noticing.

"Last time I saw her she was going to the back for more lettuce," he said.

"Should I go look for her?"

"Nah," Zell said. "She'll just be in our way and all _Irvy this, Irvy that, _and_ oh, Irvy_!"

Zell was right. Selphie was great with customers for the most part, but could get a little salty over lousy tips or rudeness, and tended to spend most of her time on the clock talking about Irvine instead of actually doing anything.

They made short work of cleaning up for the night, locked all the doors, counted the till together, then secured it in the safe.

"You ready?" Zell asked. "Boss lady?"

Rinoa nodded. "I got this."

And then together, they opened the well-hidden hatch in the floor of the stock room. Voices bled up from below, and a flickering light cast a long shadow along the wall of the staircase.

Rinoa descended first, Zell closing the hatch up behind them.

At the bottom, they were greeted warmly by more than two-dozen members of the resistance. Rinoa looked around at the faces of the townspeople that had welcomed her two years ago, people that were tired of Deling's assault on their city and the surrounding forests. People that were willing to stand with the Owls and fight.

They knew she was an outsider from the big city, but still they embraced her as one of their own, thanks to Watts and Zone. And in lieu of the Owls founding leaders, who were out completing their respective tasks in preparation for a counter attack on the Deling Lumber Company, the job of conducting tonight's meeting fell on her shoulders.

Not that she minded. This, _resistance_, was her element.

"Everybody sit the hell down!" Zell shouted from the bottom step. "This meeting is now in session!"

As she looked to the small crowd and felt a sense of accomplishment, she realized the real Deling City Princess, Rinoa Caraway was officially dead.

* * *

Notes: Thanks so much for reading! As always, reviews are welcome and very much appreciated. More to come soon!


	2. Aphrora

Two days later, Squall headed over to the Shortstack for lunch, glad to be free of the office for a few minutes. Clancy, the most tenured of the staff and resident complainer-in-chief, chain-smoked roughly four packs of cigarettes a day and frequently used Squall's personal coffee cup as an ash tray when the actual ash tray overflowed. The entire building stank of stale cigarette smoke on a good day, but on the days when Clancy actually showed up, Squall might as well have become a professional smoker himself.

The air outside wasn't much better. It was just a different kind of smoke that permeated the air today.

From the north end of the city, a plume of yellow-tinged smoke rose into the heavens and a fog-like haze hung above the town. Deling Lumber was burning the land they'd cleared, scorching the earth where ancient 100 foot pine trees once grew to build big, expensive, yet cheaply fabricated homes on tiny, postage stamp lots for upper middle-class families that were sick of big city life.

Squall, who was, and would remain neutral on the subject, could understand why the citizens of Timber were angry. They'd been forced out of decades old family lumber businesses, only to watch their legacy literally go up in flames to build shitty cookie-cutter mini-mansions for people who would come in and destroy the town's quaint charm. Their air was being polluted, their livelihoods stolen, all so some rich people could get even richer.

That understanding didn't change anything. He had a job to do.

A job he wasn't actually doing.

He needed to get on that, and soon. But first, food.

The inside of the cafe would have been a refuge from all the air pollution if Squall himself didn't smell like he'd rubbed himself down with cigarette ash while standing in front of a camp fire. For every whiff of fresh baked bread and fried onion and melting cheese he caught three overpowering lungfuls of wildfire.

Rinoa wasn't behind the counter when he stepped up to order. Instead, the blonde guy waved his spatula to acknowledge him and flipped a pile of fried onions and peppers on the grill.

"The usual?" he called over his shoulder.

"Please," Squall said.

"SELPHIE!" he shouted. "CUSTOMER!"

"Geez, you don't have to yell!" a voice screamed from the back. "I'm right here! Give me a minute!"

The blonde man tossed his spatula aside, rinsed his hands off in the sink and stepped up to the cash register, scowling.

"You get the Balamb Garden, too, right?" he said. "Ice water? Or coffee?"

"Water's fine."

The man rang him up while the girl in the back failed to appear.

"Ten-fifty," the guy said.

Squall paid him and left a nice tip, as usual.

"Thanks man. 'Preciate it," the guy said. "I'm Zell, by the way."

"Squall."

"Nice to finally put a name to the face," Zell said. "You dining in today?"

"To go," Squall said, even though he would have preferred to stay. "Got a deadline to meet."

"I hear you," Zell said. "It'll be right up."

Squall stood a few feet away, staring at the bakery case full of muffins, cupcakes, and donuts with exotic and colorful toppings. Most looked like something a kid would create.

"SELPHIE!"

"Hold your horses! I'm on the phone!"

"I'M NOT PAYING YOU TO BE ON THE PHONE!"

"So sue me!"

Squall didn't know what was going on with this place. Nobody in the dining room even reacted to all the yelling, as if it was a normal occurrence. For all he knew, it was.

"How about I _fire_ you?" Zell said in a lower tone, but loud enough for Squall to hear over the sizzling of the grill. "Or maybe punch you in the throat?"

"I heard that," Selphie called back.

"GOOD. THEN YOU HEARD ME TELL YOU TO _GET OFF THE PHONE_!"

"JUST A MINUTE!"

Zell turned to Squall while the sandwich was cooking.

"Sorry, man," he said. "I would say you caught us on a bad day, but I'd be lying."

Squall just shrugged. All things considered, Squall would trade places with him in a second. At least he'd be doing something besides sitting at his desk trying to come up with creative adjectives to describe a run-of-the-mill, no frills 9mm pistol while everyone around him argued, chugged entire pots of coffee and aggressively tried to force lung cancer on him.

"Hey, you're pretty new to Timber, yeah?" Zell asked.

Squall nodded.

"Thought so," Zell said. "So, hey, it can be pretty tough to get to know the locals, you know? They don't really trust outsiders."

"Hadn't noticed."

"Really?"

"Not really."

"Ohhh. Sarcasm. Nice," Zell said and flipped Squall's sandwich. It sizzled on the grill and Squall's stomach rumbled. "Well, hey, I don't know if you're interested, but there's a thing tonight at the Aphrora Pub. Bunch of people our age are gonna be there. If you feel like a beer after you get off, wanna meet some new people who aren't dicks, you're welcome to come. I'll introduce you around."

Squall wasn't the type of guy to spend much time at bars or meet up with groups of people in his leisure time, even though while in the military, it was an unspoken thing that everyone was expected to do. Back then, he'd gone because his job depended on it, but he was always the guy that nursed a single beer over the course of a couple hours and dipped out as soon as it was acceptable to leave. Otherwise, he would never have gone for fun.

Zell's invitation came as a surprise, after a month of getting the cold shoulder from 99.9% of the natives. It would be a good idea to accept. It might give him the edge he needed. Even if it wasn't in his wheelhouse, he might glean some pertinent information about what was really going on around here.

"Gotta make that deadline, but I'll think about it," Squall said.

"Awesome," Zell said. He scooped the sandwich off the grill and wrapped it in butcher paper. "Me and Rin'll be there around 9 or so. Band starts at 10."

He shoved Squall's order in a bag and handed it over the counter.

"SELPHIE GET OUT HERE. NOW!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Anyway, hope to see you there, man. It'll be a good time."

"Thanks," Squall said.

"Yeah, no problem."

Squall returned to the office and ate his sandwich in the archival storage room downstairs to escape the blue haze of eight different people chain smoking. He made a few notes on a piece of scratch paper as he ate, completely uninspired by the subject.

After a few minutes, his mind began to wander away from the pretense of work and back to his mission. Xu was on his ass about making progress and Quistis called every day to act as a mediator. Not that she actually needed to. He e-mailed his reports every night like he was supposed to and she had a mission of her own to deal with, namely finding one rogue agent who disappeared two months ago and was presumed AWOL and up to no good.

That agent was another piece of this puzzle he needed to get what he came for. Unlike Squall, Seifer had successfully infiltrated one of the resistance groups and had a ton of information about how they operated, what their plans were, and who the key members were. Unfortunately, Seifer split without sharing that information. With anyone.

Squall was halfway through his salad when the door opened and the pig-tailed archivist stepped inside, stared, and put her hands on her hips.

"There's no eating allowed in the archive room," she scolded. "You're going to get salad dressing and crumbs everywhere!"

"Sorry."

"You have a desk upstairs."

"Ran out of breathable oxygen up there."

"Uh, I wish they'd take it outside," she said. "It ruins the books and magazines. Do you know what smoke does to paper?"

"I'll be out in ten," he said. "Promise."

"Five," she said and narrowed her eyes. "And there better not be a single piece of lettuce left behind."

"Fine."

"I'm gonna check."

"Fine."

"Five minutes. I'm timing you."

Squall shoveled the rest of his salad down and wiped the table, checked the carpet for any stray crumbs, and disposed of his trash.

Then, he spent the rest of the afternoon in a storage closet, his laptop balanced on his knees, his back against a metal shelf, and made a list of synonyms for mediocre.

* * *

"Rin!" Zell shouted. "_Socks!_"

Rinoa paused and turned away from the mirror, frowning at her roommate through the bathroom door.

"What?"

"They're on the floor again. In the middle of the hall."

Rinoa glanced at the pair of discarded socks and sighed. She loved Zell to death but he was almost pathologically tidy. Rinoa was pathologically disorganized. Socks, shoes, important paperwork, her keys and phone were left in random places and forgotten about. Zell, on the other hand, had a place for everything and if it wasn't where it belonged, he became a little unhinged.

"I'll get them," she said. "Give me a sec."

Zell gritted his teeth and stared at her.

"My feet germs on the carpet are really bothering you, huh?"

"Oh, you noticed."

Rinoa slowly set her hairbrush aside and sauntered past him into the hall. She picked up a sock and waved it in his direction.

"What about this?" she asked.

"Stop it."

She picked up the other and stepped toward him, grinning.

"This?"

"Rin, seriously, stop."

"What would you do if I rubbed them…" she paused, thinking, "all over your pillow?"

Zell crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin, posed like a barricade between her and the bedrooms beyond.

"Do it and I won't tell you what his name is."

"Who?"

"Mystery Man," Zell said. "I got his name. But, since you feel like being a jerk, I guess I'll keep that information to myself."

Rinoa dropped the socks on the floor, teasing forgotten.

"Rin!" Zell shouted. "Put them in the laundry hamper where they belong!"

He gestured wildly at the carpet and Rinoa suppressed a laugh. She didn't mean to give him too hard a time about his addiction to clean, but sometimes, it was tough not to take the bait.

"Are you sure you don't have OCD?" she asked as she plucked the socks up off the floor. "Like, have you been tested? Because maybe..."

"I'm not. I just don't like messes," he said. "Blame my Ma, okay? If I left my shit on the floor like that, she had a wooden spoon with my name on it. And she didn't hesitate to use it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," he said. He tapped his chin with a finger. "Maybe that's what I need to do every time you make a mess."

"Hit me with a wooden spoon?"

"I'm considering a getting a tazer," he said. "Might be the only way to get through that thick skull of yours."

Rinoa dutifully tossed the socks in the laundry basket and crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn't sure if he was serious or not, but being as familiar with is temper as she was, if she crossed the line he might actually do it.

"So?"

"So what?"

"His name."

Zell smiled evilly.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"I can just ask him, you know."

"And yet you haven't."

"He never gives me a chance."

"You mean you never let him give you a chance."

Rinoa didn't know what that meant. The guy didn't make conversation easy.

"Tell me."

"Ask him tonight," Zell said with a grin. "Invited him out for a beer."

"And he said yes?"

"Didn't say no," Zell said. "Now, get your ass in gear. Selphie will murder us if we're late."

"Showing up an hour early is not late," Rinoa complained.

"Tell her that."

Rinoa would rather not. Selphie's temper was even worse than Zell's and infinitely more unpredictable. And heaven forbid they be even thirty seconds late. As if Irvine's band, the Naked Sharpshooters, was popular enough to warrant an early arrival. As far as Rinoa knew, Selphie was their only groupie. Everyone else was there for the cheap drinks.

But, the Mystery Man would be there. Maybe. That was reason enough to get a move on.

* * *

Squall finished his lackluster article well before the deadline. He handed it in, unsure of what he'd even written, and headed to his tiny apartment near the Galbadia train platform to dig through the box of files he'd stolen while the pig-tailed archivist's back was turned.

He wasn't sure what was in that box, but the dates fit. Whether what he was looking for was actually in it or not remained to be seen.

The walk was short, but he stayed on alert until he reached the door of his apartment. Timber appeared to be a quaint town, but times were tough. People were desperate, many out of work, and crime was on the rise. Better safe than sorry.

He set the box on the kitchen counter for lack of a better place to set it and opened the fridge.

There wasn't much to choose from. Take-out from the questionable Centran restaurant around the corner or leftover mac and cheese.

He settled on the mac and cheese and ate it cold, right out of the container. A part of him was desperate to find the truth, to dig into that box and get the answers he needed, but he wasn't sure he was ready to deal with this tonight. If the information he'd been searching for was in there, it could confirm what he feared his whole life, or it could prove a man innocent.

Or, there could be nothing worthwhile there at all.

His time would be better spent working on what he'd been assigned to do. The potential contents of that box were a personal matter unrelated to why he was here, but it was just the reason he'd accepted the job. No other location in the world brought him closer to finding the information he needed to move on with his life, and no other place had an actual treasure trove of documentation that could potentially make that happen.

Timber Maniacs, for all its mad, raving, chain-smoking collections of washed-up writers and insane tabloid fodder, did a fantastic job of archiving stories and information from around the world. Theirs was a legacy of protecting and preserving even the most banal and mundane of documents, including obituaries and police reports from backwater towns that no one cared about.

If the information Squall was looking for still existed, it was here, buried somewhere in those archives. If it wasn't, it was unlikely there was any information to be had anywhere else in the world. Galbadia had a habit of erasing, or at best, rewriting history.

The real question was, would the truth change anything? Would anybody listen or even care?

Squall couldn't say, but he had to try.

Quistis' number came up on his phone, startling him out of his trance. He considered not answering.

If he didn't, she would just call back until he picked up. He set his empty bowl aside, turned away from the box of files, and answered with a terse greeting.

"Get anything yet?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said.

"Xu would say _maybe_ means you have nothing."

"Xu would say I had nothing even if I proved the existence of aliens."

Quistis laughed. "You better not let her hear you say that."

"She probably has our lines tapped anyway."

"Probably," Quistis said. "But please tell me you've got more than a weather report for me this time."

"Marginally."

"Squall, you've been there a month. We need more than marginal."

"I know."

"Believe me, you do not want to have this conversation with Xu. You have to give me something worth reporting back on."

Squall took the lid off the archive box and dragged a thumb along the top of the file folders, wracking his brain for a way to make what he did have sound compelling.

"Squall?"

"At least one of the cafe employees is a resistance sympathizer," he said. "Supposed to meet up with another at a local pub tonight."

He kicked himself for the last part. He didn't plan to go and he hadn't even thought about it until it came out of his mouth. Now he would have to make an appearance. She would expect him to report back with whatever information he managed to get.

"Almasy confirmed that already," Quistis said.

"Almasy's MIA."

"I'm closing in."

"So am I."

"Call me after you leave the pub. I want details."

"I'll give you as much as I can."

"As soon as you can."

Squall hung up and stared at the box. Then, he checked the time. He had two hours until he was expected at the pub.

Time enough to get started.

He just wasn't sure if he was prepared to find out the truth, even if his father's life depended on it.

* * *

The Aphrora Pub was packed when Rinoa and Zell arrived. Selphie would insist that the crowd was there to see Irvine's band play, but it was actually the half price drinks that drew the Thursday night crowd. Most people in Timber were on a tight budget. Any time they could get something cheap, especially alcohol or food, they came out in full force.

It wasn't like the _Naked Sharpshooters_ were bad, just very, very average. They relied on cover songs to entertain the crowd because their own songs weren't terribly original or catchy. Rinoa had to give them some credit, though. What they lacked in originality, they made up for in sheer swagger. Irvine, in the throes of his rock star fantasy, was a sight to behold. And occasionally laugh at.

Rinoa stepped up to the bar, Zell following close at her heels, and cleared some space with her elbows for the both of them. If there were grumblings or dark looks from neighboring patrons, Rinoa didn't notice.

"Rin!" the bartender greeted. "What can I get you?"

"Surprise me!" she shouted over the music and angled her head at Zell. "And your cheapest beer for this guy."

"You got it," he said.

Zell drummed his hands on the bar and glanced toward the door, presumably looking for Mystery Man.

Rinoa had her doubts about whether or not the guy would show. Someone that stand-offish was unlikely to want to venture too far outside his comfort zone, and she suspected the Aphrora was definitely not his scene. She wasn't even sure if Timber would be his scene for long.

She wasn't even sure what he was doing here. The Tim was basically a one-way ticket to obscurity and no writer with half a brain considered it a smart career move.

The guy was up to something. That was the only way she could make sense of it.

The million gil question was, what?

"One really cheap beer and one watermelon cooler," the bartender said and placed them on coasters.

"How much do I owe you?" Rin asked.

Zell pushed her out of the way and tossed a twenty on the bar.

"I got this round," he said. "You get the next."

He stood on his toes and craned his neck, trying to see above the crowd.

"What are you doing?"

"Just seeing who's here."

"Relax," she said. "Your future ex-boyfriend isn't here yet."

"_Your_ future ex-boyfriend," Zell said and chugged down half his beer. "I'm a solo artist, baby."

"One break-up and you've sworn off dating completely?" Rinoa asked. "Or are you just being dramatic?"

"I got my heart stomped, Rin. I'm allowed to be bitter," he asked. "And anyway, I'm not the one who threw a pair of steel-toed boots out the window over a guy."

"What else was I supposed to do with them?" Rinoa asked. "Fall asleep crying into them for a whole month? Make them the centerpiece of my break-up shrine?"

"I dunno, you coulda just thrown them in the trash like a normal person."

"Defenestration was _way_ more satisfying," she said.

Zell's posture went stiff and she thought he was about to get unreasonably ticked off about rage-littering, even though that was Seifer's gig, but he took two steps away from the bar, then swatted the air behind him, reaching for her hand.

"You gotta help me keep a look out," he said.

"I'm shorter than you," she said. "How am I supposed to keep a look out if all I can see is button downs and crop tops?"

Zell scowled and shot her a sideways glance, but then immediately returned to surveying the door for any sign of their guest.

He was like a kid hoping for a chance to see his favorite cartoon mascot in person. Sure, Mystery Man was hands-down the best looking guy in town, but he was just a guy. A guy who might be a weirdo hiding some wacko quirks behind a pretty face and unnaturally shiny hair.

"Zell, do I need to be worried about you?" she asked and sipped her drink. "You're acting crazy."

"I'm trying to get you a decent boyfriend here," he said, "though pretty much anybody would foot that bill compared to Almasy."

"He wasn't that bad," Rinoa said. "We had fun."

"He was _not_ boyfriend material."

"So what?" Rinoa asked. "Not every relationship needs to lead to matching burial plots in Galbaida Gardens, you know."

"Wow. That's kinda dark, Rin."

"That's reality," she said. "Besides, while I appreciate your unending dedication to my love life, I have too much going on right now to worry about it. I mean, I'm trying to stage a revolution here, not get hitched and settle down in some crappy, over-priced pre-fabricated house built on the remains of Timber's economy."

"You telling me to mind my own business?"

"Yep," she said.

"Hm. Sorry, no can do, bud," Zell said. "You'll thank me later."

Her phone vibrated in her tiny purse and she dug it out, expecting Selphie to scold her for not finding her right away, but when she looked at the screen, it was her father. She ignored the call. It rang again immediately. She ignored that one, too, and he called back.

"Why are you scowling at your phone like it tried to eat your face off?" Zell asked.

The phone continued to ring and Rinoa sighed. He would keep calling until she picked up. They'd been down this road before and he always won, even the time she turned her phone off for two days. As soon as she turned it back on, there were more than a dozen messages and the calls resumed almost immediately.

She'd even changed her phone number twice and somehow, within days, he would have the new one, even after she'd registered the phone under Zone's sister's name.

If she didn't answer, he would wear her down until she did.

"I need to step out for a second," she said. "It's my father."

"Yeesh," Zell said. "Good luck with that."

She pushed through the crowd until she reached the door. Outside, small groups of people lingered in the courtyard, many of them gathered around the hot dog cart that Zell would inevitably visit before the end of the night.

Instead of waiting for her phone to ring again, Rinoa called her father back.

"Finally," he said in lieu of a greeting. "When are you coming home?"

"We talked about this already. I'm staying here."

"You promised me you'd come back for the fall semester," he said. "It's now April."

"I didn't specify which fall semester," she said and wandered past the entrance to the courtyard and out to the sidewalk beyond. "And anyway, college is your dream, not mine."

"I don't think you understand the doors a college education will open for you, sweetie," he said. "All those things you want to do, the people you want to help, you can better help them if you have an _education_."

"The people I want to help can't wait," she said. "Now, if that's all-"

"I know what you've gotten yourself mixed up in," he cut in. "Those people you're involved with are dangerous."

"I work at a cafe, dad," she said. "The most dangerous thing in the place is _me_."

"I meant the Owls," he said. "Don't try to deny it. I know and I'm trying to warn you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "But I have to go. My friends are waiting."

She hung up before he could say anything else, turned her phone off, and stuffed it back in her purse. As she turned back to head inside, she was shoved from behind hard enough to send her to her knees. The strap of her purse tore down her arm, and it was ripped from her hands.

"Help!" she screamed. "He took my bag!"

Rinoa was not afraid. She was furious that anyone would dare. While she wasn't conceited about her status here in Timber, she also knew that status afforded her a few privileges. Specifically, anyone with a brain knew to keep their hands off her person and her property. To ignore that unspoken rule meant incurring the wrath of the Owls, and no one in their right mind wanted a quarrel with the largest and most powerful resistance group in town.

He was moving too fast for her to identify, but she pushed to her feet and followed anyway. Boy, was she glad she'd chosen flats instead of heels tonight.

Someone streaked past her, dressed in black. Heavy boot soles hit the pavement with the steady rhythm of a practiced runner. She couldn't identify him, either, but it was clear they were in pursuit of the same person, and she picked up her pace and followed the pair into an alley, where her new best friend cornered the purse-snatcher and slammed him bodily against a dumpster.

Rinoa caught up with them, out of breath but still ticked, and gawked at the scene before her.

Mystery man held a boy that Rinoa knew by name against the dumpster by the collar of his shirt, an icy and murderous look on his face, as if he might snap the boy's neck if he so much as twitched.

"I'm sorry," Grayson squeaked. "I won't do it again, I swear!"

"I know your mother," Rinoa said. "And most of your family. I've had dinner at your house!"

She snatched the purse from his hands and smacked him upside the head with it.

"What were you thinking?" she cried. "Are you trying to get killed before you reach puberty? What is _wrong_ with you?"

Grayson started crying. Mystery man released him, and sent a confused glance her way.

"It was a dare," the boy bawled. "I didn't know it was you, I swear."

"Doesn't matter if it was me or the Queen of Esthar," she said. "Pushing a woman down and stealing her purse is something only cowards and lowlifes do!"

He started wailing, reminding Rinoa that he was only twelve. A tall twelve, but still just a kid.

"Please don't tell my mom."

Rinoa sighed and stepped back. She looked to Mystery Man who looked back at her passively, no sign of the cold-blooded killer she'd seen only moments ago.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Should I call his mom to come get him?"

"Please don't!" Grayson cried. "Please! You don't know mean she can be!"

"Be _quiet_," Mystery Man said.

He grasped Grayson's shoulder and pushed him back against the dumpster again firmly, but not hard, and held him there.

"Give me your word you won't do this again. To anyone."

"I promise," Grayson sobbed. "I'm so sorry Miss Rinoa. I'm really, really sorry. I won't ever do it again, I promise. Just please, my mom will kill me if she finds out."

Mystery Man glared at him.

Rinoa crossed her arms and looked at Grayson, less angry now than sad. In different circumstances, Grayson could have gotten himself killed if he'd chosen the wrong person.

"Come by the Shortstack tomorrow after school," Rinoa said. "You're going to help me clean the grease trap. Call it community service."

Mystery Man released him and angled his head at the mouth of the alley.

"Get out of here before we change our minds."

Grayson bolted away like his life depended on it. He didn't look back.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver," Rinoa said. When he didn't say anything back, she said, "You're pretty scary when you want to be."

"Situation called for it."

"Think he'll do it again?"

"If he's smart, he won't," he said. He shifted and folded his arms over his chest. "You should have yelled_ fire_ instead of_ help_."

"Fire?" she asked. "What good would that do?"

"People like to watch stuff burn," he said. "But most will just assume someone else will answer a call for help."

"But not you? Do you make it a habit to take down pre-teen muggers?"

"Not usually."

Rinoa fidgeted with her purse strap. As before, she was unsure of what to make of him, but very sure now that he was not what he seemed.

"So… do you have a name?" she asked.

"Squall."

"That's unusual."

"My sister named me," he said. "She was five."

Rinoa smiled. "That's so cute."

His expression went a little cold and very distant. Rinoa sensed she'd said the wrong thing.

"Was it storming at the time?" she asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

"According to her, it was."

He'd volunteered the information, but it was clear he did not want to talk about it.

"Can I buy you a beer? To thank you for your help?" she asked. "It's the least I can do."

"You're bleeding."

"What?" she asked, and smoothed her hands over her arms in search of injury. "Where?"

"Both knees."

She hadn't felt it at the time, but now that he mentioned it, the abrasions began to sting and throb. There was gravel stuck in her wounds and blood trickled down her right shin.

"Should probably clean those up first," he said.

"Sure, just let me get out my first-aid kit," she said and feigned looking through her bag. "Oh, I must have left it in my other purse."

He flashed a tight smile that was there and then gone, and he glanced back toward the street.

"My apartment's right around the corner," he said. "I have supplies there."

"Is this how you pick up girls?" she teased. "Wait around for a damsel to be in distress, come to her rescue, and then invite her up to your lair?"

He blinked at her. "I don't pick up girls."

"Are you an ax murderer?"

"Not a fan of axes."

"Are you going to patch up my wounds and then try to get in my pants?"

"You're not wearing pants."

She wasn't entirely sure he was joking, but his serious, deadpan delivery surprised her into a laugh.

"If you'd rather walk around with blood all over you, be my guest," he said. "I probably shouldn't have come out anyway."

He turned and started down the alley.

"No, don't go. Not yet," she called. He stopped and turned around. "I'll accept your offer of band-aids and antibacterial cream, if you accept my offer to buy you a round or two at the pub."

He hesitated, appearing to think it over.

"I don't really drink."

"Okay, then I'll buy you a pitcher of water," she said. "Whatever you want. Just say yes."

He nodded slowly.

"It's just a couple blocks this way," he said. "Come on."

"So we have a deal?"

"We have a deal."

* * *

Notes: Thank you guys for the reviews, faves and follows!

This chapter took way longer than I planned, but I jumped too far ahead and realized I skipped a couple of important plot points, so now more than half of chapter 3 is already done and hopefully you won't have to wait so long for the next one! It's turning out way less screwball than I planned but it's still mostly a comedy with a couple of more serious things thrown in. It's probably also going to be longer than I planned, but that's nothing new.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading!


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